Meek and Mild (26 page)

Yonnie nodded his head. He was right. Dale and Clara and Andrew—and so many others—had turned their hearts from obedience to Christ. Hadn’t the minister just said so?

Yonnie shifted his head slightly to glance at Dale, whose expression gave away nothing. Perhaps he had closed his heart to the truth so long ago that he would not hear the Holy Ghost knocking even through two sermons that spoke plain truth. Both sermons made clear the responsibility that had stirred Yonnie’s heart for weeks, ever since the day he helped Andrew tow the Model T to the abandoned barn. He had been weak, too much under the daring influence of his childhood friend. When he later pulled the car out of the ditch, he was no better. But at last he grasped hold of the fortitude God offered when he rightly interpreted that Dale should avoid contact with the Marylander families out of loyalty to Christ. Clara was a woman. Since she had no husband, she would need the guidance of her father to find strength to shun her cousin, but Hiram Kuhn had been lax for so long that Yonnie almost counted him among those who needed to seek peace where they had lost it.

Clara was not Yonnie’s responsibility, but Dale and Andrew were fellow men. Any of them could be called upon to be a minister in the future. Dale was already married, and Yonnie and Andrew would be eligible themselves once they wed. The day might come when someone would nominate one of them to be a minister and they would face the lot—a slip of paper tucked in a hymnal that would indicate God’s choice.

In a flush of vindication, Yonnie resolved to seek out the bishop immediately after the close of worship to make an appointment to speak privately.

S
arah Tice had proved right on that June day when Clara ran into her friend in Springs. The Widower Hershberger did go to Ohio to marry. A younger couple would have waited for the fall harvest season to pass, but Mr. Hershberger rode the train, married, and returned all within the space of four days. Clara’s housekeeping work diminished. At least the
English
banker’s family still depended on her services.

Clara spent most of her days in the far corners of the farm. Crouching among the rising corn to clear weeds always was an option, and her innate industriousness was not so far spent that she turned her nose up at the chore. At first she avoided the places where her father worked with Josiah under his wing. Gradually she began to work beside them, briefly at first, as if she had some more important responsibility at the house, and then for increasingly longer stretches. Hiram never asked why she was not occupied with more feminine labor.

Between sermons that grew more stern each time the congregation gathered and her determination not to rely on the milk wagon for transportation as long as Yonnie was driving the route, Clara hesitated to leave Kuhn property. Three days had passed since Noah and Joseph Yoder rained the latest scoldings on the congregation. She hadn’t seen Fannie in three weeks—not since Yonnie would have gloated to leave her on the side of the road—and while Andrew was always glad to see her, Clara did not want to aggravate whatever trouble might be brewing for him because of the Model T. The expression on Andrew’s face when he drove the automobile was adorable, and Clara loved the sensation of the car in motion, but if anyone saw her with Andrew and the car, she couldn’t be sure of the consequence. Automobiles were
English
machines. Driving one had not yet faced the practical test of defiance that visiting relatives in Maryland had withstood, and certainly not a congregational vote. Clara was fairly certain who agreed or disagreed with the Yoders on the shunning. She was far less sure how members of the congregation would divide on the question of an automobile.

In the end, Andrew would be all right. It was Fannie who worried Clara with her melancholy. She had not been the same since discovering Martha was expecting a child, and Clara suspected Elam did not realize how deep his wife’s emotions had plummeted.

At midafternoon on Wednesday, Clara wandered back to the house, too warm and too thirsty. She was barely in the back door when Hannah barreled at her from across the kitchen.

“You got a letter!” Hannah waved the envelope.

Rhoda rapped her knuckles on the kitchen table. “Hannah, that doesn’t belong to you.”

“Clara doesn’t mind.” Hannah looked at Clara. “Right?”

Clara glanced at Rhoda. She would not take sides between mother and daughter.

“Why don’t I have a look?” Clara took the envelope from Hannah.

“It’s from Sadie, isn’t it?” Hannah wiggled in anticipation of the answer.

“Don’t be silly.” Rhoda sealed the lid on a jar of fat. “Sadie is younger than you are. She doesn’t know how to write a letter.”

Clara wished she could scoop Hannah into her arms the way she could have done a few months ago.

“It’s from her mother,” she said. “But you and Sadie will both be big enough to write letters before you know it.”

“When I am, I will write to Sadie,” Hannah said.

Clara resisted the urge to glance at Rhoda again. “One thing at a time.”

“Hannah,” Rhoda said, “let’s go outside and get the laundry from the line.”

Hannah constrained the pout that flashed through her lips and followed her mother. Rhoda paused at the back door, turning toward Clara.

“This is your turn to clean the Flag Run Meetinghouse, is it not?”

Clara nodded. “I’m going soon.”

“You can take the cart if you like.”

“Thank you.”

“I want to help clean the meetinghouse,” Hannah said.

“You’re going to help me with the laundry.” Rhoda’s tone left no room for negotiation.

Clara took her letter upstairs to her room, opening it only when she was certain she wouldn’t be interrupted.

Dear Clara
,

Do you remember how we used to write letters over the winter when our parents did not want to take the buggies through the snow? At least I understood that excuse. The news we hear from your congregation is almost unbearable. And you do not fool me. I know you are not happy at home
.

I must apologize for being such an inadequate hostess when you last visited. Whatever weighs in my heart, I should have welcomed you more ably. Sadie asks every day when you will come again, and I don’t know what to tell her
.

Why don’t you come to stay for as long as you like? Come to the Maryland district. You would be much at home here. You can stay with Elam and me. Sadie would be thrilled—I don’t have to tell you that
.

I know you are fond of many people in your own congregation, but the thought that they would even consider keeping you from us casts a new light on the question of your visits
.

You must come. You must
.

Love
,

Fannie

Clara had no doubt of Sadie’s abounding glee if she were to go to sleep with Clara in the house and wake to discover she was still there. And Clara’s presence might cheer Fannie—or at least keep the household running until Fannie could cheer herself. Clara prayed every night for the news that her cousin was with child.

But Sadie was Sadie. She wasn’t Hannah or Mari or Josiah. Or Hiram. Or even Rhoda as she had been until recently. If Clara went to Maryland for an indefinite stay—especially if she visited the church there—her own family would be required to shun her. The silent division running through the household would widen into permanence.

Clara couldn’t bear the thought.

Neither could she imagine not seeing Fannie and Sadie and Martha and all the Hostetlers.

She pushed her fingertips into her closed eyelids. How was it that the Yoders saw a clear straight line between right and wrong, and Clara saw only the wiggle of uncertainty?

Clara tucked the letter back into its envelope and slid it under the winter nightgown lying in a drawer. The meetinghouse was waiting to be tidied and swept. Bishop Yoder had already announced that the next service of the congregation would be at Flag Run. Clara loaded a bucket with rags, filled two large jugs with well water, chose a broom, and arranged everything in the small open cart before hitching a horse.

When Clara drove past the adjoining Schrock farm, she waved at Mattie Schrock, who strolled along the road with a small basket of apples braced against one hip.

Clara slowed the horse. “Good afternoon. I hope everything is well with the Schrock household.”

“We are well.” Hesitation wafted through Mattie’s face. “May I have a word with you?”

“Of course.”

“Our breakfast conversation this morning was unusual.” Mattie steadied herself against the side of the cart.

“Oh?” Clara’s mouth dried out in an instant.

“Priscilla asked when she was going to get to hear another Bible story from you.”

Clara tightened her grip on the reins. So it had begun.

“Of course her
daed
and I did not know what she was talking about. Imagine our surprise when she explained.”

Clara steeled herself to withstand Mattie’s gaze. “The stories are in the Bible. I’m sure she has heard them before and will again.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true. You know that we are not overly strict in our interpretation of the church’s teachings about these matters.”

While the words might have carried encouragement if they appeared on paper, the tone with which Mattie delivered them made Clara’s breathing grow shallow.

“It is not so much that we disapprove of children hearing Bible stories,” Mattie said. “Rather, it is that such instruction is the role of parents—or at least should have the approval of parents.”

“I meant no disrespect. I am sure you teach your children well.”

“Others might protest more than Priscilla’s father and I do.” Mattie shifted the fruit basket to the other hip. “I’m sure your own father would be happy to see you married and settled with children. Then you could use your gift under submission to your husband, as the Bible teaches.”

Clara swallowed, coughing to cover the gag in her throat. “Thank you for telling me how you feel. You will have no reason for further concern.”

“I was sure you would understand.”

Clara raised the reins, and the horse trotted forward. She blinked back stinging, indignant tears for the next four miles before letting herself into the meetinghouse. With the door propped open to capture whatever breeze might stir the sweltering afternoon, Clara swept the floor before launching into a furious scrub of the windowsills and benches. The water in the bucket grayed rapidly. It was impossible to keep summer dust out of the structure. Clara hefted the bucket outside to dump it in the clearing. Above the splash of water, horse hooves clattered. She looked up to see Yonnie drive past in his own open buggy, not the milk wagon. He slowed slightly, his eyes meeting hers, before his rig disappeared behind a grove of trees. Clara rotated, expecting to see him come out the opposite edge of the cluster. When he didn’t emerge, she stilled her hands and breath to listen, certain Yonnie had seen her. If he were passing on the road, he should have appeared by now. Clara glanced at the open meetinghouse door and at her own cart, pondering where her steps should take her.

The rattle in the bushes sent her scurrying toward her horse. She ran straight into the clasp of a man’s hands.

“What’s going on?” Andrew gripped Clara’s trembling shoulders, preventing her from turning away from him.

“Nothing,” she said.

Something had spooked her. “Did I frighten you?”

She turned her head and looked through the trees. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I know. But we haven’t spoken in a long time. I remembered you would be cleaning today and hoped I could catch you.”

She stepped away from him. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“What happened, Clara?” Andrew followed her line of sight to the road.

She exhaled. “Yonnie just went by. I saw him approaching, but he never came out on the other side of the trees.”

Andrew paced toward the road, peering through the dense foliage. “Maybe you just couldn’t see him.”